


Light

by Pthithia



Series: (Maybe) Next to Normal [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Next to Normal - Kitt/Yorkey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Mental Illness, Minor Character Death, Paris - Freeform, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:48:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pthithia/pseuds/Pthithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire returns to Paris a year later, he expects it to be hard. And he's right.</p><p>What he doesn't expect is to run into so many memories of the life he's left behind.</p><p>He's in Paris again, and it rains.</p><p>As well it should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light

**Author's Note:**

> *You do not have to have seen Next to Normal to read this.

The rain patters slowly down Grantaire's umbrella, and he studies the patterns they create with intense interest. One full drop splashed onto the clear plastic could slowly deteriorate, running down the sides of the dome branching into its own unique trails until nothing of the original raindrop was left. He blinks and looks down at the wet concrete, scuffing his old boots on the ground.

It's been a little more than a year since he's last been to Paris. He hadn't thought he'd be able to return so soon, but he knew he had to do it, for Gabriel. For sixteen years, Gabe had simply faded into the background. He'll be damned if after everything that has happened he isn't there now.

Grantaire makes his way down the street, keeping his head down. He thought it might be harder, if he could see the city he had so loved and lost. It doesn't help. Even with his eyes focused on the pavement below him, he sees the bar that Musichetta used to work at, nearby the gym he and Bahorel used to box at together. He sees Gavroche’s old high school, and the park where Courfeyrac proposed to Jehan; Feuilly's old neighborhood, that he had to leave after Sabine left him alone with a newborn daughter. Grantaire sighs and walks past, with a nod to his memories, his old life.

He takes his time meandering down the streets, little alleys, trying to integrate himself back into the city, back into the old lifestyle. Little more than a year has passed since he has walked these streets, and yet it seems like eons ago, in a time long before him, that any of his sad tale happened. Whenever he tries to think about those past, wearied years it begins to sound like he is telling the story of someone else's life. It just couldn't have been real.

It never was, to tell the truth.

He comes to a stop nearby the hospital; a building that means a lot more to him than a hospital should to any normal person. It is the hospital the gang had cried and laughed in, where Gavroche had gone that time his heart failed, where Feuilly had driven Bossuet to A&E when he broke his ankle, the place where Joly and Combeferre had once worked side by side.

Grantaire takes a step back from the building as the deluge of memories washes over him. He turns too quickly. The person he promptly slams into isn't prepared for Grantaire to suddenly step in front of them.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," Grantaire mumbles, kneeling down to help the man pick up his briefcase and messenger bag. "Didn't see you there-"

The man grabs Grantaire's arm, forcing him to look up and-

Oh dear.

Enjolras looks back at him, blue eyes wide and his fair eyebrows creeping up his forehead.

“Grantaire,” he says breathlessly, breaking into a dazzling smile, dimples popping. Grantaire shudders and melts a little inside.

“Enjolras,” he responds, much more curtly than intended. He hands Enjolras his bag and stands, acutely aware of every one of his 178 centimeters as he draws himself out of the puddle he has knelt in.

“I should go,” he says quickly, straightening the bottom of his coat and backing away.

“Wait, please don’t leave!” Enjolras says, grabbing Grantaire’s fraying sleeve and staying him.

“Yes?”

"I just…” Enjolras pauses. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Uh, and you?” Grantaire doesn’t know what Enjolras wants him to say.

“I’m fine.”

Grantaire nods. “Look, I really should go; it’s been great to see you and all, but-“

“Grantaire, wait, please.” Enjolras stops him again and grips his shoulders.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Almost ashamed, almost as if the idea has just come to him, Enjolras looks at his feet. "Look, this is going to sound crazy, and I know I have no right to ask this of you, but... will you come get a coffee with me?"

R tilts his head to the side as Enjolras coninues.

"I don't have anywhere to be. I know this terrible little place a few streets over that a young man took me to once."

Grantaire does not say anything.

“I mean, that is, if you want to?”

Enjolras sounds so hopeful.

Grantaire blinks. Coffee? Should he risk it, after everything he has worked so hard to get through?

The blonde flutters long eyelashes that frame intense blue eyes.

Enjolras holds the door open for Grantaire as they enter the Corinthe, an odd blend between a grungy coffee shop and a busy bar.

"Do you remember the first time we came here?"

"It was our second date, and you were so pissed at me because you thought I was drunk; you wanted to call Combeferre to come pick you up."

"That really was an awful date, wasn't it?"

"It almost ended our relationship before it could begin. Luckily, at least at the time, I wasn't drunk, I just needed a way to stall you until that club down the street opened so we could go dancing. All you ever wanted was to see me dance after hearing so much about it."

"Well, you were a good dancer."

"Is that why you married me?"

"No," Enjolras says pensively, resting his head on his arms. "I married you because I loved you, and I thought we could work as a couple."

"Well, that obviously worked out so well."

Grantaire looks at Enjolras’ hand resting atop the table, delicate and pale and long, and starkly bare. It should feel strange to see such a familiar hand unadorned with the gaudy diamonds the hand had worn for years; watching the hand rest on the sheets as its owner slept and Grantaire stared and stared, wondering if the promises that had been made when the rings first slid onto that perfect hand were still promises intended to be kept.

It doesn't feel so strange. Not anymore. It hasn't felt strange since Grantaire had removed his own rings, given them to Gabriel to do whatever he did with all of the wedding albums and mementos and keepsakes Grantaire no longer wanted. Gabriel hadn't mentioned, and Grantaire hadn't asked.

Grantaire still remembers how adamant Gabriel was about keeping the pictures, the knickknacks and such. Who knows where they were now.

*

_"Give them to me," Gabriel said, hands on his hips and a familiar frown on his face._

_"Why?"_

_"You can't just throw away your wedding pictures."_

_"I'm not married anymore; what does it matter?"_

_"No." Gabriel gave him The Look, a Look Grantaire used to love to see on Enjolras’ face. It was eerily reflected in the face of his son now, who looked so much like the leader in red it was scary. There were some deliberate mistakes, of course. His eyes were harsher and more blue, his chin pointed and his face less chiseled and almost gaunt. Whether that was from the past few months or genetics was anyone's guess._

_"Well, figure out what to do with them, but I don't want them in my house," Grantaire grumbled to himself, turning back to his boxes._

_"It's not your house anymore," Gabriel snipped back, opening the biggest album to a picture of his parents, hand in hand, Enjolras mid eye roll and Grantaire laughing with his head thrown back during Combeferre's best man speech. Gabriel frowned and shut the book again, throwing it to the bottom of an empty box with a thump so loud it echoed around the room, empty of furniture but full of memories._

*

"Why are you in Paris? They said you had moved away."

Grantaire considers. Why is he in Paris? The obvious excuse: Gabriel was being accepted to the university in Paris, where his parents had gone before him, and had wanted to see the campus. Grantaire had offered to bring him. A perfect excuse; a sound excuse.

Grantaire decides to run with it.

"Gabriel wants to go to the university here. He's been accepted, actually, so he asked me to come with him for orientation. I left him on his own so that he could hang out with a few friends."

Enjolras’ eyebrows creep towards his hairline. "I thought he hated Paris."

"Did he say that himself?"

"Once. When he came here last to see me."

"Well, can you blame him?"

"I don't expect Gabriel to love me, Grantaire. I don't even expect him to like me."

"C'mon, Gabe loves you."

"I'm not an idiot, Taire."

They sit in silence, neither willing to make the next step.

Neither does.

Later, they stand and leave the cafe, paying for their untouched coffee and walking out together, Grantaire holding the door in turn.

"Do you have anywhere to be?" Enjolras asks at long last, an expression on his face that says he doesn't expect Grantaire to stay.

Grantaire has always been good at surprising Enjolras. "No."

A grin. "Will you do me the honor of spending the afternoon with me?"

Grantaire hesitates.

"Why not?"

*

They walk all over Paris, and before long the awkwardness of the cafe has melted away, leaving only the kind of comfort that can come from 18 years of marriage and 26 years of friendship. They talk of everything and nothing, of friends and current events and politics. Grantaire almost thinks he can see that spark in Enjolras’ eyes; a spark that had been extinguished 16 long years ago.

They pass the university, and Enjolras talks about the first ever ABC meeting, born from a debate club that they had taken control of.

They pass the high school and Grantaire recalls the day that they met, a bunch of spindly teenagers with big ideas and bigger opinions.

Enjolras points out the first little apartment they lived in together, right after they were married and before Gabriel was born. After the accident they had had to move out rather quickly. Grantaire bites his lip at the memory. Enjolras doesn't seem to notice, but he stops talking anyway.

*

 _"He's not_ here, _Enjolras!" Grantaire snapped at the man standing in front of him with one hand on the bedroom door and one stuffed in his pocket._

_Enjolras simply frowned, an exasperated shake of his head. "What are you talking about, Grantaire? He was just here."_

_"No! Enough! He's gone, Enjolras, do you hear me?" Grantaire slammed the door shut harder than necessary. In the other room a three year old Gabriel began to wail._

_Neither seemed to notice. A broken confusion spread across Enjolras’ face, dangerously mixed with defiance. "Don't be stupid, Grantaire!" Enjolras crossed his arms, tossed his hair. "He's here right now, you saw him, he walked right past you!"_

_"No! No, he didn't Enjolras! We've done this every day for the past three years and I'm tired! Aren't you tired?"_

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"He is dead! He has been dead for three years!" Grantaire snarled, throwing his hands into the air, spitting out each word with all the built up anger and frustration and humiliation he had every time Enjolras did this._

_Enjolras’ face fell. "W-what?" He so suddenly looked like a lost little child, confused and alone. It was frightening to see such an expression on a face built for passion and fire. "What are you saying...?"_

_Grantaire huffed, took a breath, counted to ten. "Enjolras. Please. We've gone over this every day of every week of every year. He died in a car accident in the middle of the night. Remember? Three years ago?"_

_Enjolras began to cry. "No. No, I remember him_ now _, he's here with us, why can't you see him?"_

_"Enjolras, those memories aren't real!" Grantaire stepped forward, grasping their hands together, diamond wedding rings digging into his palm. "You, me, this room, our house! This is what's real!" he shouted._

_Enjolras began to cry harder. "Taire, please, no-" he fell against his husband, burying his face in his neck._

_And Grantaire sighed and let out a long breath, rubbing Enjolras’ back soothingly. "Tomorrow," he whispered softly through blonde curly hair, "I'll take you to a doctor. Someone who can help you, who can make this better. Don't you want this to be over? To finally let go, and give him some peace at last?"_

_Enjolras let out a shaky sigh. "Yes," he whispered, fingers curling around Grantaire's t-shirt. "Yes, I want it."_

_In the next room, Gabriel screamed and screamed the rest of the night._

*

They come to a stop outside the cemetery, far on the edges of town. It's long since stopped raining, but the clouds refuse to dissipate and a strong breeze has picked up.

Whether it's the location or the wind, Enjolras huddles deeper into his coat.

"Care to go inside?" Grantaire glances up at Enjolras, shocked. "You really think that's a good idea?"

"Courfeyrac didn't think so, when I asked." Enjolras pauses, eyes fixed on the tall, wrought-iron gate. "Maybe it's about time I started breaking the rules."

Their eyes meet, and in spite of himself Grantaire allows a soft smile.

The graveyard is quiet when they enter, as graveyards are, and neither makes comment on the fact that the weather is exactly the same as it was the last time they were there together.

Wordlessly they follow the little cobblestone path winding through the headstones and grass, up a little hill and under a low-hanging willow.

Enjolras sighs, a melancholy smile spreading across his face. He turns and flops straight onto the wet grass next to the marble tombstone without a care in the world. Grantaire huffs out a startled laugh, and Enjolras pats the grass beside him.

Grantaire shrugs and takes a seat.

He turns to the slick stone beside him and smiles, running his rough and calloused hand over the slippery marble.

"You've a beautiful spot," he says to the stone, decorated sparsely with red poppies.

Enjolras leans forward and reads the inscription in that smooth, perfect voice he once reserved for his speeches.

_Pierre Matthieu Combeferre_

_Beloved Friend and Loving Brother_

_August 1988 -- November 2017_

_The life of the dead is placed into the memory of the living,_

_and the love of the living will forever live with the dead_

They are both quiet for a moment.

When Grantaire looks up to Enjolras, he is only half surprised to see him looking back.

It occurs to Grantaire that it's not the best idea to spend a rainy afternoon with your ex-husband in a graveyard. It's certainly not a good idea to spend it at the grave of a dead friend either.

Perhaps today is the perfect day to start breaking the rules.

When they leave later, Grantaire silently promises Combeferre that he will come back one day.

Enjolras and Grantaire stroll back down the street and see a music shop, selling instruments and sheet music and private lessons. Enjolras gazes into the windows like a starry-eyed child, a small smile showing his dimples. Enjolras always did have a talent for piano and singing and classical dance (his bourgeoisie upbringing dictated that he master these talents) and when Gabriel was young they were passed to him.

"Does Gabriel still play?" Enjolras asks.

"He does."

"How is it?"

Grantaire closes his eyes against the light drizzle coming down from the sky again.

*

_"Fucking hell, where is he?" Gabriel snarled backstage, wringing his hands and wiping his sweaty palms on his black slacks. "They said they would both be here!"_

_"I don't know, Gabe. Maybe he's running late."_

_"He's not coming," Gabriel whispered back. The crazy look in his bright blue eyes silenced Gavroche. "He's not coming," he repeated slowly._

_"Gabe-"_

_"Go. Please." Gabriel turned away from the other man and sagged against the exposed brick wall, checking his pulse._

_"Gabriel, you can't-"_

_"Can you please just leave me alone??" Gabriel snapped, not bothering to turn back around._

_Gavroche looked down, slid his hands in his pockets, straightened his blazer. "Break a leg, Gabe." And he was gone._

_Gabriel waited a moment to be sure, and then reached into his pocket to pull out a small white bottle whose contents rattled ominously._

_Out in the audience the stage had been dark, only a spotlight or two on the glossy grand piano. Grantaire, out in the audience with all of Les Amis (save one important member) had not been concerned. Gabriel was always the best out of all the competitors in these competitions; never showing any sign of nerves (or really any emotion at all) and his talent at age sixteen had already greatly exceeded that of his absent father. Now, performing for an entire theater and a panel of university recruits, Grantaire had nothing but confidence in his son._

_From the right side of the stage Gabriel entered, and instantly Grantaire could tell something was wrong. He was slouched where he should have been tall, shaking like a leaf and pale as a sheet. At such a distance, he could still see the purplish bruises under his eyes. Grantaire sucked in a shocked breath._

_"Hey, R, Gabe doesn't look too good," Jehan whispered, leaning over Courfeyrac's lap._

_"It's probably just nerves," he muttered back._

_Gabriel took his seat at the bench like always, but when he looked down at the keys they swam before his eyes, blurring into each other, his head pounding. He glanced up and saw the judges waiting expectantly._

_He blanked for a moment before speaking, his voice much more hoarse than he had expected._

_"Thank you for coming. Gabriel Grantaire."_

_He gave himself a self-assured nod, looking back to the keys. He had practiced this piece twice every day for the past two months. There was no way he could get this wrong._

_Grantaire watched as Gabriel took a deep breath and began to play, his fingers shifting effortlessly across the keys. It was beautiful._

_A few notes in, and the music stumbled, Gabriel accidentally sending the music flat. He froze, eyes wide, as the blindingly bright keys glared back at him. He tried again. Quicker, the first few notes hiccupped, and again the bright opening fell flat._

_His breathing came faster and faster, the drugs finally kicking in, his vision spotty._

_Grantaire watched with the rest of the audience as Gabriel stuttered up on stage. "I- I'm sorry," he said, not looking up. "I just..." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands._

_Grantaire held his breath. "What are you doing??" he wanted to yell at his son, to scream it from the rooftops. The audience was silent as the grave._

_"The thing is..." he paused. "I..."_

_He looked up and saw the whole audience staring back._

_His face split into a giant grin, and he laughed. "_ YOU KNOW WHAT THE PROBLEM WITH CLASSICAL MUSIC IS? _" he shouted, leaping out of his seat, knocking the bench over. "_ IT'S SO RIGID! AND STRUCTURED! YOU HAVE TO PLAY THE NOTES ON THE PAGE!! THERE'S NO ROOM FOR... IMPROVISATION!!! _"_

_And with that he snatched the sheet music from its little shelf and tossed it into the air, raining down on the audience._

_"Oh, god," Grantaire muttered, standing and shoving his way across the aisles, trying to push backstage as the audience burst into conversation under the tortured noises shrieking out of the piano._

*

When rain begins falling harder, Grantaire opens his umbrella again and holds it over Enjolras. He smiles down at him.

As they walk back downtown, it's almost easy to believe that nothing ever happened; that Combeferre never died and Enjolras didn't divorce Grantaire, that Gabriel had had a chance to love his parents.

When they pass their old neighborhood, neither says anything.

Grantaire stops outside the train station, the appointed meeting place he and Gabriel had agreed upon. Reality crashes down upon him as he realizes he must now say goodbye, and perhaps not see Enjolras for years. What was fathomable only yesterday suddenly seems unimaginable here, in the rain in Paris.

Enjolras smiles sadly. "I suppose this is it?"

Grantaire shrugs, nods. "Gabriel will be here soon."

Their goodbye could be quick or lingering, tender or abrupt. It was neither. Grantaire's cell phone lets out a shrill ring.

Grantaire wrenches his gaze from Enjolras and fumbles a moment, answering the call without glancing at the screen.

Gabriel's voice is short, clipped as it always is. He will be there in five minutes, he says; Bahorel is heading to Nice this afternoon and has offered to take them back to Nîmes. Grantaire agrees, and then Gabriel is gone.

"So I guess we're going with Bahorel after all," Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods. "Was that Gabe?"

"Yeah."

The silence is already thickening between them, the high tension and emotion of the past year rebuilding. Grantaire shifts on his feet.

"I wish I could stay," he suddenly blurts out, without thinking.

Enjolras' expression softens. "Taire, I-"

"It's just..." he huffs. "I forgot what it used to be like. Before. I miss how that used to be. And I know it's silly to compare now to then. It's just- nice."

"Grantaire." Enjolras steps a little closer, his hands on R's shoulders, so that the artist has to tilt his head back to look up at him. "You know I still love you, I do, and I wish we could be together and be happy, but- we just can't."

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to tell your ex-husband you still love him."

"I'll always love you, R." Enjolras gives a wry smile. "But you don't want me. I'm broken. You'll kill yourself trying to keep up with me."

"What are you doing tonight?" Grantaire wants to make sure he'll be okay.

A frown. "I'm going home."

"What about our friends? Will they be with you?"

Enjolras snorts. "They didn't tell you? Nobody but Courfeyrac will speak with me; Jehan will out of loyalty to Courf. They're your friends too, and when I, er, dumped you, so to speak, they weren't exactly pleased."

Grantaire blanches. "That's not fair. It's not your fault. You- you left to help me. And Gabe. How could they be mad?"

"You mean how you stayed through everything, but _I_ was the one who couldn't handle it? Like that went over well with them."

"I'll say something to them. That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair, R. Take a look at me. Or our son. Hell, look at yourself. Life is a downright bitch."

Enjolras had only begun swearing on a regular basis after the accident; it had been practically taboo for him to do so before.

Grantaire opens his mouth to say something, but what it is they'll never know, because at that moment someone taps him from behind.

Grantaire turns around and is met with his son, almost taller than he is, his golden hair wild in the wind and rain, his cheeks chapped and red.

"Hey, you ready to go?" he asks, not looking at the man behind his father. "Bahorel's parked back there."

"Um, yeah, let me just finish saying goodbye."

Gabriel's eyes flicker up to see Enjolras, and his residential frown deepens. "Oh. It's you."

Grantaire nudges Gabriel with his shoulder, shooting him a Look. "Gabriel. Say hello to your father."

Gabriel rolls his eyes, barely glancing at Enjolras. "Yeah, hi, whatever. Look, Grantaire, they're waiting for us." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'll meet you in the car."

And he's gone.

Enjolras sighs. "See? I told you. He hates me."

"He does not, he's just-" Grantaire grasps for the right word. "- a teenager."

"Right."

"He reminds me so much of you, E," Grantaire teases. "You could be twins."

Of course, Enjolras is in his early forties and Gabriel is barely seventeen, but then Enjolras has always retained a youthful appearance and Gabriel has never looked young and starry-eyed. He's much too serious and gaunt to have ever looked childish. Perhaps in a perfect universe.

Enjolras grimaces. "That's what I'm afraid of. He reminds me too much of myself."

There is a beat of silence in which they simply stare at each other.

Grantaire speaks.

"I guess I should be going."

"Seems like it."

He doesn't move.

"Tell me that you'll be alright."

"I'll be okay."

"You promise?"

Enjolras shrugs. "No. I don't think I'll ever be okay." The corner of his lips tug up. "But that's not your problem anymore, now is it?"

When they hug goodbye, it is cool and stiff, and the warmth from the graveyard is gone.

"Goodbye, Grantaire," the blonde says, his long, pale fingers wrapping around the handle of his bag.

"Goodbye, Enj."

When Enjolras walks away, he does not look back.

Grantaire would like to say he does the same.

Flopping clumsily into the backseat rather than gracefully, like he will later claim, Grantaire greets Bahorel in the driver's seat and the bright red head of hair indicating that Feuilly will be joining them for the journey.

Bahorel turns, smiles, mockingly punches Grantaire's arm. Feuilly grins at him in the rearview mirror. Beside his father, Gabriel looks out the window at the raindrops on the glass, branching off slowly until the raindrop is gone.

They have long since left Paris before Grantaire asks Gabriel:

"So what did you think of the university?"

Gabriel shrugs. "It was nice."

"Do you think you'll choose it?"

Gabriel is so smart, so musically talented, he could go to any university he wanted.

"I hate Paris," he answers, eyes still trained out the window.

He is quiet for a very long time before continuing. "But I think Enjolras could use someone to look after him."

He doesn't say anything more.

Grantaire smiles brightly, making sure to keep it mostly hidden from his son as he turns to watch the countryside blur outside his own window.

*

It isn't until weeks later that Grantaire finds the cardboard box in his son's closet, stuffed brimful with wedding albums, rosettes, pamphlets and posters, vows and wedding rings and cheesy Valentine’s Day cards from over the years, each carefully wrapped and stored.

Grantaire does not mention it, and Gabriel never brings it up.

He does not have to. For now, it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. I've always liked this fandom crossover, and I feel like the number of fics for it is lacking. Thoughts, comments and kudos are always much appreciated. Thank you!


End file.
